Doctor Who :: One Goal
by MekQuarrie
Summary: Craig has a plan. Not a very good plan. But it could turn into something big. Across all of time and space, who could possibly get in his way? And who will surprise him most? :: 'Covent Garden Police Box' image reworked from Wikimedia commons.
1. Chapter 1

Craig Owens stood at the top of Southampton Street and took in the view. "Now, that is nice!" he said aloud.

He had been here many times before. "Let's go to Covent Garden and look around the stalls," one of the ladies would say. "We could go up to the pub," one of the lads would say. And a day at Covent Garden would be arranged.

But today, there were no scented candles. There were no semi-accurate scribbles of famous people for sale. There were no acrobats; no jugglers.

Today, the scrubbed glow of the stone pillars was replaced by layers of dirt and soot from coal. The painted signs were peeling. The wooden stalls were rotting and the iron edges were rusting.

It was like he had been transported into the future to some dystopian nightmare. But this was not the future.

"Hallo," he said to the first stall holder. "I'm from out of town. Just arrived from outer space. Got any work?" Great jute sacks of potatoes were lined up along the side of a low-backed truck. "Get lost fatty. I'm busy," replied the grubby young man.

"A bit rude," he laughed, walking over to the giant market building. "Alright?" he chirped as he passed flower sellers and men with sacks on their shoulders. The cobbles that he knew as bleached and brushed for pedestrians were dirty and dusty and slick with bruised and discarded fruit. The air was heavy with motor fuel and it smelled like some of the wooden partitions at the edge of the square were being used as impromptu toilets.

At a corner of the market where piles and piles of bananas were being dropped off by van, an older man had set up a little brazier with a pan of chestnuts. Smoke curled randomly up into his face and flames licked carelessly out at passers-by. There was no indication of the price. "How much, mate?" Craig chirped.

"Give us a penny, young man," winked the old man. "I'm down to my last few." There were probably two dozen overly toasted nuts left in the pan.

Craig felt in his pockets. Although he had plenty of coins he was reluctant to spend the little he had too quickly. He fished out a large halfpenny pence and held it out to the chestnut-seller. "Aw. That's my last ha'penny. Just stick a few in a bag and I'll take them, mate."

With a scowl, six chestnuts were scooped into a small paper bag and dropped in Craig's hand.

He ate them as he walked over to the corner with the Jubilee Market. The chestnuts tasted oily and hard. "Fantastic," he said.

**:::**

"I can carry sacks if you want," suggested Craig. "Most of this is muscle, you know." He slapped his belly and smiled.

"It's too late in the day for carrying," said the man in the long coat at the vegetable barrow. "Someone might let you sweep up if you need the cash right now."

"Ideal!" said Craig. "My Mum always says I'm a genius with a brush. Who's best to ask?"

"Ask the professor lady over there," said the vegetable man as he wiped down the wet surface. He pointed to a modestly dressed woman packing away a flower stall. "Watch she doesn't try to make out she's cleverer than you. She should know her place really."

The young woman was rubbing dirt from her cheeks. "Hi there," he said.

"Hi there," she replied. She looked at him directly. "Do people say 'hi' round here? I don't even think the tourists say that."

Craig raised his eyebrows. He was not at all sure what he had said.

"I'm Martha," she smiled. "Martha Jones."

"Pleased to meet you," he said. "Chestnut?"

"No thanks. They taste like conkers. Just horrible really. But who are you?" asked Martha. There was an odd look in Craig's eye that intrigued her.

"I'm Craig, Craig Owens, but hold on a minute. You talk like me. Why's that?"

"Where do you come from," she asked quietly. She made sure no-one around them could hear what she was saying.

"Essex, of course. It's not a crime yet. Where are you from?"

"I'm from Clapham." She paused. "When?"

"What? Pardon me?"

"When are you from?" she asked without emphasis.

Craig's eyebrows raised slowly. "No," he said. "You are joking! I'm from a bit ahead." He took a breathe and proclaimed "I have come from The Future. What about you?" Excited, he gripped her by the upper arms. "When are you from?"

"Early twenty-first century. Of course, I was born in this century. But I was transported back from - I forget - 2007 probably. Did you meet the angels?"

"No. I don't know what that means. You're not one of those religious nuts are you? No offence, but I've got my own plans at the moment."

"No. They were - are? - creatures. They stole energy from us. Is that how you traveled?" She nodded. "You know, back in time." They both turned away like conspirators.

"No. I came with a bracelet thing, a ring. I found it by accident. But I decided to come here. Well here, as in London, but the year got all mixed up. Who's 'us'?"

"I have a friend. He does this quite a lot. I wouldn't say he was a professional or anything like that. But he gets us out of trouble eventually. Come to think of it, he gets us into trouble a lot too."

"Is he here? Maybe he can help me. I've got a few questions to work out."

"He's with a publisher. Arranging something for the future. DVDs I think he said."

"DVDs? What, now? They're more out-of-date than I thought. No, you want to get into downloads Martha. Much less bulk to carry round. I know a man down Waterloo who can find any sounds you want, anything at all. Better than file-sharing on the internet."

Martha smiled indulgently. "Maybe when we get back to that London, Craig? For now, I'm enjoying collecting vinyl records."

"Ah, yes. There must be ton of record shops around here. You can show me round at the weekend." Craig suddenly felt very at home.

Martha smiled and shrugged. "Hopefully, I'll be gone by then." Craig felt less happy.


	2. Chapter 2

"That was a hard day," said Craig. His face was dirty, his hands were dirty, his clothes were dirty.

Martha had made a giant pot of tea on the top of the single gas-fired ring. "One cuppa coming up. Extra strong." She herself looked recently scrubbed. Despite working the same side of the market, they had barely spoken all day.

"You could do with a shower in here," he mocked from the small sink in the bathroom.

"Where do you think we are?" she laughed. "The seventies?"

"Nah," he said, returning with a fresh shirt. "It's not so bad. No-one expects you to smell like a bunch of flowers here."

"Just make sure you use that soap. Sixties or not, I'm a stickler for hygiene."

"Not so bad," he repeated sitting at the table. There was no television in Martha's tiny apartment, just a small brown radio, but he sat back relaxed. "I'll make us some toast in a bit."

"Don't worry, Craig. You'll be doing your bit soon enough." She poured two mugs of tea and put one on the table in front of him. "But I'm not bringing you a pipe and slippers." They both laughed.

"Yeah. That's a pain. Everyone's puffing away around the fruit and veg. Even the young lads smoke cigarettes. It's difficult to start a conversation between coughs."

"You get used to it. I was wheezing like an old lady for the first couple of weeks here. All those old fellas dropping ash on the flowers while they were trying to chat me up. I keep getting the urge to talk about lung cancer and death and all sorts. But it's not right. I'd stand out too much."

"I'm not sure what we can do here, Martha. Apart from work and live some kind of honest life."

"Don't worry. You can come back with me when my friend sorts out the travel issues we have." She wrinkled her cheek encouragingly. "You will come back?"

Craig sipped his tea and looked up at her. "I'm sorry, Martha, but I've only just got here. Only a week. It's great. I don't know when I'll want to leave." He sipped his tea again. "That's a lot of sugar in there."

"Sorry," she murmured. "Everyone takes about a hundred spoons of sugar in their tea now. I forget to ask." She topped up the mug with the now stronger tea.

"You don't really know when your mate will come back. Or even if he'll sort out your problem. It's a bit of a stretch isn't it? Messages in DVDs forty or fifty years in the future? How will that even work?"

Martha rubbed her forehead, still smiling, but she had clearly thought about it before. "Things usually work out. Maybe a few days, maybe a few more weeks."

Craig squared the mug on the table-cloth. "Well," he shrugged. "If all else fails you can always wait until the future catches up with you?"

Martha went to the sink and pushed some cutlery around in the tiny wash-bowl. She had thought about that too. "Well. Time will always catch up with you."

Craig resisted the urge to go and slap her on the shoulder, like he would have done with most of his friends. He went to the window and pulled back an edge of the curtain. "Plenty to do, plenty to see, Professor Jones."

She snorted at the nickname and threw the glass cloth at his head. A smile crept over her face as she wrapped her arms around her chest.

"Who's that out there?" Craig asked, opening the curtain fully.

Martha put down the mug of tea and walked up beside him. "Oh. It's not him again is it? Some lunatic running around in the dark. Shouting. He's been at it for a few days now."

Down on the relative quiet of the cobbles they could see the shape of a young man flitting around the wooden partition walls. There was little light around the empty stalls and barrows, but from the glow of the Opera House and The Strand and all the surrounding streets they could see his outline and his energy.

"What does he shout?" Craig was quite taken by the random actions of the figure.

"I don't know for sure. It sounds like 'tick tock' or something like that." She pulled the curtain back over "I'm not stupid enough to go outside to ask him."

Craig winked at her. "Maybe it's a mystery? We could solve a crime while we're here. Like an Agatha Christie."

She shook her head. "There's not enough time to solve every mystery, Craig. Sip your tea and we'll wait out the creepy stone angels mystery before we get on other matters."

Craig looked around the corner of the curtain again. "He is funny though."

Martha pushed the curtain closed again. "I doubt he would understand you, Craig. We all think he's from 'abroad' somewhere. You know? He wears a fez. Not from around here."

**:::**

Martha was not sure why Craig had run so quickly from the room. She cleaned the tea mugs, scrubbing the limescale and staining on the inside. But after a few minutes waiting she had to go after him.

Down on the street, right outside the stairs leading up to her apartment, Craig was hugging the mystery figure.

"Martha, Martha," he shouted. "This guy is a friend of mine." The smile was wider than his face would normally allow. He kept pointing at the young man in the fez.

"Oh," said the Doctor. "Martha Jones, I presume." He adjusted the hat on his head and looked a little wary.

"Yes. How do you know? Have we met before?" She frowned. It was a bit like the moment the day before when she had met Craig.

"No. Not quite. Well, yes, but not yet." He looked to the side and up the stairs. "Craig did tell me." He finally offered his hand for her to shake.

"Ah," she nodded. "One of those discussions."


	3. Chapter 3

Martha stayed in the doorway while Craig finished his apple core. "He's funny that way, Martha," he laughed. "Wait till you hear all the other stuff."

"Should we discuss this or not?" asked Martha raising an eyebrow. Craig's arrival was a happy accident. But this new stranger looked like he might be a heavier burden altogether.

"Maybe not," replied the Doctor. He looked a little uneasy. "Your traveling friend isn't with you, is he?"

"No," said Martha. "How do you know that? Did you meet the angels too?"

The Doctor turned to Craig. He looked anxious. "Don't worry," Craig said with a wink. "She's perfectly safe."

"I'll be the judge of that," said Martha quietly.

"Her friend's off burning DVDs or something. You should meet him. He sounds 'interesting'; like you." Craig winked at Martha.

"Do you know The Doctor then?" Martha asked arms clasped across her chest again.

"Yes," said Craig. "But I thought you said you didn't know him." Craig stopped. He realized that Martha was not talking to him. She was staring at his friend. "You said you didn't know this guy. Is this the Doctor you're talking about? No?"

The Doctor straightened the fez on his head and fiddled with his bow-tie. "Hello, Doctor Jones," he smiled.

Martha put her hands up to her ears in a childish impression of not listening. "Oh. I don't think I want to know this." She stepped back from the doorway and into the apartment.

**:::**

Martha stood by the window. The market square was temporarily in total darkness and total quiet. She had also left the lights of the apartment switched off.

"So, you're him?" she asked.

The Doctor stood in the little doorway in the dark adjusting his hat and bowtie. "Yes. But I could go if this is getting difficult. I think maybe I should."

From the darkness of the hall, Craig piped up. "Don't be daft, Doctor. We've just met again. It's great. I've only just arrived myself. We can have a kick-about in the morning."

"Are you him, like now?" Martha asked. The faint moonlight lit the side of her face. "You didn't get some other crazy idea while you were talking to the publisher? Change your face?"

"Oh, I see. Good point. No, I'm him, but at a different time. It never even occurred to me what year it was. This sort of thing rarely happens. Usually for the best."

Martha looked back into the room and looked this Doctor up and down. "How do you know me? My friend's older. You must be from some time ago." She squinted her eyes. "But you don't even look like him."

The Doctor stepped forward. "No. No, I'm much older. I remember you." He pointed at her. "But you never mentioned me."

"I don't know what I'm going to say. So we escape from all this then? I'll keep quiet."

"No." The Doctor stepped forward to face her directly. "I would know. And I can't tell you what happens. What if you had told me? No. Let's just have some tea and a biscuit and go on our way."

Martha thought for a second. Maybe the Doctor had escaped the trap of the angels. But he had not confirmed if she had escaped.

Craig flipped the light switch. "Sounds like a plan, Doctor. I'll pour the tea."

**:::**

The Doctor paced up and down by the window of the first floor apartment. It was still dark, but there was still a lot of activity with municipal cleaning carts, and couples on their way to the theaters and restaurants on The Strand.

"You're not making sense. How are you going to get to Mexico, Craig? Do they even have commercial air travel in this age?"

"Don't be stupid, Doctor", Craig replied. He was savoring the corner of a piece of toast spread with real butter. "We've had planes for a hundred years. I'm saving up for the ticket. It'll take me about three months, but I won't eat much and this flat is free while I work here." He winked at Martha.

"Then what will you do?" asked the Doctor quietly. "Watch the football and work for a year to fly back again? I know I always tend towards the optimistic, Craig, but that sounds a bit vague. Even to me."

Craig licked his fingers. "Maybe I'll use the ring. I'll have seen what I want by then."

"What are you not telling me, Craig? This seems like a lot of effort to watch a football match. You could stay here and watch it on the telly box."

Craig sighed. "Look. I missed, Doctor. I wanted to be here in London in 1966. I wanted to see England win at Wembley. But I missed the date. I'm here three years later."

"Don't worry, Craig," said the Doctor. "I've managed to muddle by somehow. You get used to it." He patted Craig on the arm.

"But I don't know how to make it work again. It's stopped working. It's alright, I'll live with it. London in '69. That's still pretty exciting."

**:::**

"I'm off to see Ronnie Scott. What about you two?" asked the Doctor. He pulled on a raincoat over his suit jacket. He looked thoughtful.

"I'm not into jazz clubs. How about we go to a local pub, Martha?" asked Craig.

"I'm not sure a woman in a bar would get the reception you'd expect, Craig." Martha shook her head.

"We can go to a bar in Soho," offered the Doctor. "Ronnie knows the best ones. All very accomodating."

"Ah. Not the club then," said Craig. "Is Ronnie Scott a personal friend?"

"Well, there was a thing with a piano. I helped a little. You know what I mean, Martha?" he raised his eyebrows hopefully.

She laughed briefly. "It almost passes me by now, Doctor. This person and that person. Name-dropping is too small a word for it."

"Let's all go then," suggested Craig. "The buses run by on The Strand. I'm dying to jump on the back of a Routemaster."


	4. Chapter 4

"This thing is dangerous," said the Doctor sitting down firmly on the side bench of the bus. "How would it be if I traveled around space with the back door of the Tardis left open?"

Martha and Craig laughed at his discomfort from their already seated positions. The gloomy lights of the Strand in the rain passed by outside the windows.

"You should have run faster," said Martha. She nudged Craig with her elbow. "You need the exercise." They both laughed again.

"It's all a matter of timing," added Craig. "It's saves a lot of time waiting for the next one if you can hop on while it's at the lights."

"Put your umbrellas here," ordered the conductor from the running board at the back of the Routemaster. The rain from the resting umbrellas ran smoothly down the wooden decking of the lower deck. He pointed at a storage space under the steep stairs that lead to the top deck.

The Doctor offered his wizened black umbrella to the conductor with a smile. "Would you mind?"

But the man declined and pointed again to the store with his thumb. "Your property," he declared.

The Doctor sighed, staggered off his seat and braced himself by the luggage store. "The gravitational pull is totally unnecessary on a vehicle from this time," he remarked. "Pass me your brolly, Craig, before I fall out."

"Fares please," said the conductor as the Doctor sat down again. He nodded only to the three newcomers.

"I'm sure you'll find this sufficient," said the Doctor producing a small plastic card wallet from his waistcoat pocket. He turned to Martha and winked. She rubbed her forehead in embarrassment.

"What is 'Oyster Card'?" said the conductor pointing. He leaned forward to look out of the side window and gave a light tap on the cord running along the roof. A pair of tiny chimes could be heard within the shell of the bus as it continued on efficiently past the empty bus stop.

The Doctor turned the psychic paper to look at it. Of course it was blank. He whispered to Craig and Martha "I don't know. What is 'Oyster Card'?"

Craig replied. "Something Harold Saxon introduced to keep tabs on us all. But good for the tube. You can't use it here though. Why have you got an Oyster Card?"

"I don't," hissed the Doctor. "You two must be projecting onto the psychic paper."

"Don't draw any more attention than you have to Doctor. Just pay the fare," said Martha. "It's probably only pennies."

"Let me deal with this," replied the Doctor. As the conductor looked back, he flourished the psychic paper again. "Three to Traf Square," he demanded with more concentration.

"Welcome to London, your Highness." The conductor tapped the edge of his turban in a curt manner. "That will still be two pence each."

Defeated, the Doctor sat back and let his friends assemble a clumsy collection of brown coins on the coat lying across his lap.

**:::**

"You should call them the tiki-taka," laughed Craig. "That would be so much funnier." He drummed his fingers jovially on the wooden table top.

"Thank you, but I like to do the naming myself. For all I know that name might be a bit rude in some cultures." The Doctor stared at bubbles on the top of his pint-glass. He seemed suspicious of them.

"What cultures?" Craig chuckled. "It's just a silly football reference. You know. A bit of the old one-touch Spanish soccer?" He was trying to keep his voice audible above the background noise.

The Doctor shrugged. "I might use that on something appropriate in the future. But why waste the easier names like 'tiki-toki'? I can use the obscure cultural references when I get a bit desperate." The Doctor sipped the froth on his beer and licked his top lip.

"Obscure? Ha. That's what I like about you, Doc. Obscure is relative with you." He slapped the Doctor's upper arm.

"Like a lot of things," added Martha. She cradled the glass of white wine in her fingers, savoring each sip. She settled herself comfortably into the atmosphere of the club room. The overpowering cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke made her cough and splutter, but the heavy murmur of chatting voices, conspiring tones and frequent laughter made her feel happy.

"I'm sorry Ronnie wasn't here," she said. "But this is still great. People talking like civilized human beings. It's great."

"Yes," said the Doctor. "You can never be sure with these things. A man has a club named after him for forty years of his life, and the week we turn up, he's in Canada."

"Still," said Craig. "Free drinks and peanuts for the evening. You can't say fairer than that."

"How long have you been chasing those things around the fruit market?" asked Martha. "I've heard talk of some lunatic running about at night for a few weeks now."

The Doctor looked upward in the pretence of thought. "Oh. A week or two. They're a bit boring really. Like little footstools with a clock wheel making them run about on their own. I might even leave them be. They don't seem threatening. No evil plan. No evil mastermind. You know what I mean, Martha?" he winked. "Not on the grand scale of things. Not on any scale really."

"Just decide now," said Craig pointing his finger at the Doctor.

"Decide what?"

"Just say no to chasing little clockwork footstools around bags of rotten veg."

"I have a responsibility, Craig. I have to poke my nose in. I can't help it."

"Do it," he joked.

The Doctor closed his eyes and laughed quietly. "Alright, Craig. I give in. The tiki-toki have defeated me." He began to smile. A weight was lifted from his shoulders.

"Tiki-taka!" shouted Craig. "Say it!" He pointed again.

"Toki!" said the Doctor." Don't push me. The footstools may have defeated me. You will not." Now he was pointing back.

"Oh, boys. Behave," smiled Martha.


	5. Chapter 5

The upper bar was supposed to be for light meals during the day and had splendid views of Soho. But when the Doctor and Craig and Martha were ushered up the ornate staircase with dozens of other guests, the little tables had been pushed to one side.

"Let's do the show right here," laughed Craig as he pointed in the doorway. An odd number of impromptu musicians were setting up and tuning their instruments. Some were already allowing their practices riffs to blend into an introductory background tone.

"I wish I'd kept up my drum skills," nodded Craig. "That kit is very impressive." He found a vacant bit of the bar counter that he could squeeze onto with Martha and the Doctor. He nodded firmly to the woman behind the bar and she pressed three pre-poured frothy pints toward him.

"I have the feeling you come here to join in, Doctor," said Martha squeezing between her friends. "Am I right?"

The Doctor winked. "Maybe later. Maybe all will be revealed."

Martha laughed, tapping Craig on the arm. "The Doctor's last big secret," she whispered.

The majority of the band were playing together now, although a few stragglers were still chatting to each other, quaffing drinks and flicking ash onto the floor. "That's a cracking tune. What do they call that?" asked Craig.

"It's 'Birdland'. Something to do with Charlie Parker."

"Yeah, Charlie Parker was great," said Craig vaguely.

Two well dressed young men in suits caught Martha's eye and mimed an offer of a drink. She shook her head firmly and looked back to her friends. "Where did our host go to?" said Martha looking around the crowded room. "I knew he was up to no good. The Doctor can't stand still for two minutes."

"He had to fix up something," Craig replied sipping his beer. "Whatever that means."

"Is he going to sing?" Martha was intrigued. She eyed the gathering collection of amber beverages and wrinkled her nose. The smell was a bit too strong.

"My money's on a rocking drum solo," Craig suggested. Martha shrugged and caught the eye of the industrious barmaid. She pointed to a man drinking a glass of wine and mouthed "I'll have one of them."

After solos from the piano and each of the two trumpets and much applause, the improvisation leveled out to a tense interlude.

"There he is," Martha

The Doctor was at the back of the more casual members of the group playing a chrome triangle. He looked very happy but was striking the metal without haste, preferring to chat with whoever stood to either side of him. "I can hear it with the snares, but it's barely one note in twelve," Craig explained. He smiled again. "It's just ridiculous."

Martha looked at Craig bemused. Craig raised his eyebrows. "Takes all sorts," he said.

**:::**

"That was marvellous young man," said an ageing beatnik as he left the room.

"Yes. Well done," agreed a young woman dressed in ornate clothes.

The Doctor clapped vigorously as the musicians finished up and began to disperse for a much needed break. "Don't mention it. All fine music. Can't get enough."

"I think I'll go to the little boys room myself," said Craig. He pointed to the tiny fraction of the bar where he had been able to prop his elbow. "Keep that exact spot for me," he commanded the Doctor.

"Yes sir," said the Doctor with a smile. He feigned a salute which knocked his fez toward the back of his head.

Craig wandered out into the hall smiling and patting random strangers on the back. "Alright mate?"

The Doctor looked around the crowded upper bar and smiled faintly. As his gaze reached Martha, he saw she was staring intently at him.

"What are you thinking?" she asked mildly.

"You know he's up to something," he replied holding the smile.

"What could he possibly be up to?" she scowled. "He doesn't exactly have your genius for lobbing a spanner into any piece of machinery he happens to be passing."

"Hurtful," said the Doctor looking forward again. "It just takes one man…"

"Or woman…" she interrupted.

"Well, yes, 'or woman', but how did you know what I was going to say? How can you interrupt without knowing the end of what I'm going to say?"

"I'm sorry," she replied. "It was a bit of a habit back in the twenty-first century. Here, it's almost mandatory."

He looked back to her again. "Yes. It only takes one man - or woman - with a little knowledge to make a big mistake."

"Is that a saying?" she asked. "It sounds like something my grandmother would have said - or might be saying right at this very moment."

"What do you mean? It's not a saying. It's just a thing I said." He rubbed his chin. "We do have a proverb - on Gallifrey - but you wouldn't understand it. It's to do with a bird and sticks. It doesn't end well."

"Stay out of his way, Doctor," said Martha. "He's got to make his own decisions if he wants to. You don't rule time and space, you know."

"Well," he huffed. "I was never a fan of the Time Lord hierarchy, but surely 'Time Lord' has got to mean something?"

"You're not his nanny. How much damage could he do?"

"But I know him, Martha. I know of him. Much more than just saying hello and having a laugh. I know that at some point he gets married. Don't you see?"

"Don't say any more. I asked you not to."

"But I can't tell whether he's before or after. Why is he here if he's happy? Do I have to send him back if he's going to miss a significant moment." He sighed, turning and leaning both hands on the guarded portion of the counter. "And there is more. You'll hate me if I tell you, but please let me tell you."

She shook her head and raised her hand gently to his face. "No."


	6. Chapter 6

Craig had another busy morning pushing trolleys, emptying vans, and carrying sacks of vegetables. At lunch-time he was nearly finished and ready to go for a wash. He walked over to the top end of the Garden to a van that sold the best tea. Although he could make tea on the stove in Martha's flat, he preferred to wait for her to be there so they could enjoy the pot of tea together, but she would probably still be delivering flowers around the theaters for another couple of hours.

The man in the van usually served the market staff before any passing tourists, whether or not there was a queue. Craig nodded across the small crowd in the approved manner and was passed a large mug of steaming hot tea with his usual two teaspoons of sugar. "Nice one."

As he blew carefully on the thick brew, one of the older boys, Parkinson, who usually ignored him approached and pushed his shoulder. "What are you doing now, Fatso? You look like you've got nothing to do." Parkinson wore a long jacket and mud-caked boots.

Craig steadied the hand holding the mug of tea. "I'm going to get cleaned up. Most of us are done by noon. Including you. What seems to be the problem?"

"I think you need to lose a bit of weight," said Parkinson looking him up and down.

"No thanks. I love my body as it is," Craig joked. He slapped his left palm against the center of his chest. "Why are you so interested in my rude health?"

Parkinson's nostrils flared. "None of that soft talk. I've heard all about your mouth. Do you want to play or not? A straight answer please."

"Oh, you're asking are you? Play? Play what?" A soft thud on the back of his head gave him his answer. A heavy football bounced off down the street and was pursued by another of the young vegetable assistants.

Parkinson scowled at the receding figure. "A bit of footie, you idiot. What else? The lads who help the fruit sellers have been getting a bit cocky. Blocking the paths and pissing behind our sheds. We need to sort out who's boss. Are you in? You'd better be. Veg versus fruit."

Craig nodded. "Oh yes. A grudge match," he said. "You can't beat a bit of aggro. Game on. We can't let the strawberry patch kids foul our pitch, can we?"

"That's more like it," Parkinson replied. "We'll be at the front of the Jubilee Hall in an hour. Bring biscuits. No need to wash." He pointed into Craig's face. "And keep your funny talk to yourself." He snorted with contempt.

He sloped away, scuffing his boots roughly on the grime of the cobbles.

"A bit of politeness wouldn't go amiss," Craig said to himself. But he was looking forward to kicking the ball about. He liked the idea of heading the ball into the goal and stretched his neck to practice.

**:::**

A voice from behind caught his attention. "Craig!" He turned with his tea still in his hand. A grimy figure was pushing his way out from behind some metal bins in the lane behind the tube station.

"It's me." The Doctor lifted the cloth cap off his head to reveal his tangled hair. "It's the Doctor." He smiled.

Craig nodded and chuckled. "Yes. It's less of a surprise this time. I do know you're here, but why are you hiding in that lane? Were you sleeping back there?" He tilted his head to the gloomy delivery lane.

The Doctor fixed the cap back on his head. "No. Just a nap. I had a bit of business up at the Arsenal tube. I've been trying to persuade someone local to take the tiki-toki off my hands, but nothing came of it and I felt a little tired on the way back. I think the tiki-toki are draining my energy. Directly, I mean. "

"Well, stop chasing them then," said Craig. "It seems obvious. They're no problem to anyone else but you."

The Doctor grumbled. "They seem to be so determined to catch my attention. And they surely can't be up to any good."

"Come play football," said Craig. "Kicking the ball about solves a lot of problems." He mimed a solid strike with his right foot.

The Doctor smiled and jogged his arms up and down. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt. Do you have the necessary colored tops?"

"No. Nothing formal. We're just playing shirts v. skins."

"How primitive. What sorts of animal skins have you gathered?" The Doctor looked alarmed.

"No. 'Skins' means your own skin, Doctor." He sipped the sweet tea and tapped his fingers against his cheek.

Self-consciously, the Doctor held his hands up to his chest. "You don't mean naked do you?"

"Ha. Just the top half, you lemon." Craig slapped him lightly across the chest. "It's still the Sixties. No-one will look twice."

"Let's just choose 'shirts' though," the Doctor smiled. "I have an excellent shirt right here. And we can form a killer partnership. Without killing anyone of course."

Craig shook his head vigorously. "Nah. We can't play with the shirts, Doctor. Those veg boys have been disrespecting my mates, even the ones I hate. It's 'skins' for me. And we need your mad soccer skills to destroy them."

The Doctor frowned. "I thought you disapproved of the word 'soccer'?"

Craig sighed. "It's fine when used with other words like 'mad' and 'skills'. Don't ask any more questions. Are you going to kick the ball or not?" He raised his eyebrows up and down twice in a persuasive manner.

"Yes," he nodded.

Craig pointed back to the market with his mug. "Time for a drink of the hot stuff, then over to the loading bays."

"But shirted," the Doctor whispered under his breath. "And you'll need to provide more of the local money. I spent the last of mine on bird food. A complete waste of time."


End file.
